Return of the Bad Boy

by Paige North

  I look past him, at the car, because those eyes will do their thing and make me even more his than I already am. “You fixed it,” I say, trying to keep my voice hard.

  He nods, pulls open the screen door, and motions me to follow him outside. “Yeah. The engine’s so fucking sweet it puts all other cars to shame. Your brakes were shit, too, so I got new pads. . .” He keeps going on and on. I walk behind him, into the fading daylight, as he leads me around it, showing it off. There’s no doubt—the car is beautiful now. Not good as new, but better than I’ve seen it looking in years. Did he . . . give it a new paint job? What the hell . . . are those new hubcaps? He keeps talking about a mile a minute, about all the improvements he made. Half of the things he says go right past me. Most of it goes right past me.

  Because all I want him to do is stop talking about the fucking car and hold me.

  “It’s nice, but I can’t pay you for all this,” I break in, while he’s going on about how he changed all the fluids. “I don’t have the money.”

  He pulls the key out of his pocket and lays it on my palm. “No charge.”

  I take the key and step away. This is his penance. It’s his way of apologizing for screwing me over. But I’m not going to tell him it’s all right, because it’s not.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, turning to go back inside. This is it. This is the end.

  How can it be the end when every pore in my body is still screaming out for him?

  “Wait,” he says.

  Thank God.

  I whirl around. “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that to you, Katydid. I tried not to. But you’re so damn sweet, and sexy, and . . . I tried to control myself. I really did.” He squeezes his eyes closed for a second. “It’s no excuse. It never would’ve worked between us.”

  The excuse only makes me angrier. For me, this was real. Maybe it was even love. But for him, it was his inability to control his stupid libido?

  Pathetic.

  “I’m so sorry for your lack of control. Maybe you should see a doctor for it.” It takes every ounce of strength I have to shrug with indifference, like him walking away won’t be the most painful thing that’s ever happened to me. “And, sure. If you keep saying it’ll never work, that’s one way to make sure nothing ever works,” I say. “Goodbye, Dax.”

  I stomp toward the porch and thankfully, he’s on my heels. He puts his warm hand on my bare arm and whirls me around. “Come on, Katydid. You really think someone like me could ever . . .”

  I laugh bitterly. “What does it matter what I think? It’s what you want. You always got on me for doing what my parents expected me to. But you’re so much worse, trying to do what everyone expects you to, keeping up this image as a bad boy who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

  He holds up his hands. “Now, that’s not right. I—“

  “It’s true. And really, at this point I think you’re right. All you’re good for is screwing girl after girl. You said it yourself. That’s who you are and you’re not about to change. And I know why. It’s because you’ve always been scared of change.”

  He lets the words sink in, and for a split second, I think that maybe I’ve gotten to him. Maybe I’ve wounded him, just a little bit. But then he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the ground. “Yeah. Huh. That’s what I said.” He lets out a heavy breath and looks back at my VW. “But I’m not all bad, am I, Katydid? Fixed your car.”

  He gives me this little boy grin that makes it impossible to hate him. But I fucking do hate him. I hate him for being such a man and for not being enough of a man. “How will you get home?”

  “I could do with the walk,” he says. “It’ll give me time to think. You leaving for the city tomorrow?”

  I nod, wondering if he’ll have room in that brain of his to even think of me while I’m gone. Or if he’ll forget so easily, like last time.

  “Guess this is goodbye, then, huh?”

  I don’t want it to be. I need him to grab me and tell me to stay. I think back of when I left for college, and how he told me to go. How I kept wishing he’d show up at my dorm and say he made a mistake. It didn’t happen then, and it won’t happen now.

  Yes, this is really goodbye.

  Suddenly, he steps forward and pulls me against his strong body. His hands tighten around my arms just the way I’d wanted to grab for him—desperately, with no intention of ever letting go. His heart is beating in my ear and he’s warm and pleasant and safe and all those things that Boston is not. It’s more than that, though—it’s a sensation I’ve only had a handful of times in my life, of being one hundred percent comfortable and happy and home.

  With him. I’ve only had it with him.

  He doesn’t say anything though. He just holds me there. I have to remind myself that he was the one who threw me away. The seconds tick by, making this home feel so temporary, and futile.

  I feel my every nerve weakening inside me. If I stay here any longer, I will be powerless to stop him from hurting me, over and over again.

  And I can’t do this anymore.

  Standing on my tip-toes, I kiss him on the cheek, and push him away. I don’t look in his eyes. That would be my undoing.

  I mumble a goodbye and rush into the house before he can see my eyes fill with tears. Turns out, I’m not all cried out, after all.

  Chapter 12

  “Miss Donahue! This brief is incomplete!”

  His words hit me like gunshots fired from Fowler’s office across the hall. He’s so loud that every head in cubicleland swings in my direction. They’re all eating their bagels and cream cheese, courtesy of me, but do they show me any sympathy at all? Nope. The other interns look like they’re enjoying my crucifixion, because at least it isn’t them.

  Not that it’s ever them very often.

  No, Fowler has made it pretty clear I’m his number one target.

  Shoving away from my desk, I wipe the cream cheese from my thumb. They didn’t save a bagel for me so I’ve managed to cobble together my breakfast by scraping out the remains of the spread container and putting them on a couple stale saltines I found in the kitchen. I take a swig of lukewarm coffee, and hurry across the hall. “Yes?” I ask.

  My car drove like a dream all the way to Boston. It didn’t even protest when I gunned it to eighty on the interstate. I couldn’t stop thinking the inside smelled like my mechanic, like that heady combination of grease and soap, despite the orange-scented air freshener he’d hung from the rearview mirror.

  When I finally got back to my apartment, I had nothing but a quart of spoiled milk and a few handfuls of Frosted Flakes left, so I went to bed hungry, listening to the couple in the unit next door arguing all night about something unintelligible, and likely unimportant.

  But that’s what people do to each other, isn’t it?

  My parents had tucked a couple hundred dollars in my purse, but I spent a good chunk of it on this bagel breakfast in attempt to make things right with my boss. And now, where is Fowler, but right up my ass again. He’s getting me back for the Dax thing, I know. But I didn’t know he’d be quite this vindictive.

  “Do you have excrement between your ears, Miss Donahue?” he seethes, shoving the file across the desk toward me. “I told you that the red folders are only for the cases that are still pending.”

  I take the folder. “I’m sorry.”

  He takes a bite of a bagel. I watch him do so, disgusted by the way it looks being chomped by his overly whitened teeth.

  He stands and starts to pile case files in front of me, slamming each one down with increasing ire. “You see?” he says, like I’m three. “Do it like this. You understand?”

  I nod obediently.

  Then I watch, horrified, as he tosses the rest of his barely-nibbled bagel into the trash.

  As I gather the shitload of files into my arms and start to scoot away, the only thing in my mind is what Dax had said to me. Face it. A job working for that scumbag ain’t worth it, K
atydid.

  No, I tell myself. This is my father’s dream for me.

  But what about my dreams? Truthfully, I haven’t been sleeping much, but I know if I did, my dreams would only be of one person.

  And he threw me away.

  And what have I been thinking about ever since?

  Our last few seconds together. How he’d held me there, desperately, as if wanting me to say something he couldn’t, or didn’t think I could say myself.

  Maybe he wanted me to say what I should’ve said four years ago. I’m staying.

  What if I had said that? What would he have done then?

  I trudge back to my desk, red-faced, trying to make sense of Fowler’s orders. But he isn’t done yet. He follows me out into the sea of cubicles and stands behind my chair as I slump into it. “Make it snappy. I need this before ten. In fact I should’ve had it an hour ago. My last intern—“

  “Probably committed suicide,” I mutter under my breath.

  He stops short. “What?”

  I look up at him innocently. “Nothing. I’ll get it done, sir,” I say, trying to roll my chair under my desk and hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.

  He takes the chair and whirls it around so I’m facing him. He’s so small that I’m not much shorter than he is, sitting down in my task chair, but he must love the power of putting me in this position. “Your attitude is unacceptable, Katherine.”

  The way he says my name only grates on me. Or maybe it’s just the name. It’s too formal, too professional, too . . . not me. Once again, Dax was right.

  “Katie,” I murmur, my eyes drifting to the never-ending pile of work laid out upon my desk.

  “What?” he snaps. “Enunciate when you speak. None of this mumbling like a child. Has no one taught you proper elocution before?”

  “My name is Katie.” I stand up so that in my heels, I’m towering over him. I stare him down so that he has no choice to take a step backwards. Then I say, “You want me to enunciate properly? THIS. JOB. IS. BULLSHIT,” I shout into his face, making his hair blow back from his face and so loud people in other offices can hear.

  Heads swing towards me. Fowler is staring at me too, ready to spit out something about my being out of a job, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. I shove the offending brief into his arms and say, “Find another person to treat like garbage. I’m done here.”

  I pull my badge from the lapel of my dress and toss it so that it hits him square in the forehead. He grabs it, blubbering, and says, “You can forget ever getting a job with a decent law firm in this city, state, or country. This is a smaller industry than you might imagine.”

  “If you think that you have any power over my life or career from this point forward, you must be as delusional as you are short and rude,” I sneer at him. I gather my things, then I stalk into his office, grabbing a sesame bagel for good measure.

  Every eye is on me as I come out, holding it in front of me in victory, like a trophy. “And another thing,” I shout at him. “You never fucking paid me for the Thai food, asshole.”

  The last thing I see is his bewildered expression before I hurry out of the building and into the street.

  The second I do, it’s like a massive burden slides off my shoulders and into the gutter. The sun is shining, and birds are singing overhead, as if approving of my latest act of insanity.

  By the time I get back to my apartment, my stomach is full of bagel and I’m determined. I kick off my shoes and my silk dress and throw them in the trash. Then I change into my cut-off jean shorts and tank top, take my still-unpacked duffel bag, and shove it into the back of my VW.

  I drive straight through, without stopping except for a little rush hour traffic in Worcester. By the time I get into Friesville, the sun is setting. Since Dax has always put in 12-hour workdays, I head straight for the garage. I’m surprised not to see his Mustang parked out front. I pull up and see Tom stepping out of the office, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Hey,” he grunts.

  “Hi. Is Dax here?” I ask hopefully.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. He called it a day early and went to Murphy’s.”

  He called it a day early? The boy gets his lifeblood from cars. He doesn’t simply call it a day early for any reason.

  I get back in my car and drive across town, my palms sweating when I pull into the Murphy’s parking lot and see his Mustang. I get out of the car and walk into the dim, dark cave of a bar.

  It’s just as scary as I expected. The second I set foot inside, a bell overhead jingles, announcing my presence, and a dozen grizzled, time-worn faces much like Mr. Harding’s glare back at me. I suck in a breath, searching through the haze of cigarette smoke for Dax.

  My heart does a little flip in my chest when I spot him, slumped over his beer, unruly hair tumbling into his face. I take a step in his direction, and freeze.

  His broad shouldered body was hiding a slight girl with bleached blonde hair and a halter-top exposing the tattoos on her shoulders. The girl is hot, definitely, and just the type of girl someone like Dax ought to go for.

  Someone who fits with him.

  I steel myself and crane my neck around the bartender to get a better look. Upon second glance, they don’t fit. She’s hanging onto him for dear life and giggling at something he said, but his mouth is a straight line.

  He isn’t enjoying himself. As much as he wants to think that this is his life, that screwing girls with no attachments makes him happy . . . it doesn’t.

  And for the first time ever, I really know it. I know what makes him happy.

  Every eye except his is on me as I move into the bar. Past the pool table, where a man setting up his shot suddenly looks up and scratches. Past the jukebox belting out lonely country songs. Past the drunks arm-wrestling in the corner. By the time I am close enough to reach out and touch him, he still hasn’t noticed me. I take another deep breath. “Dax,” I say, over the twang of the music.

  He straightens on his barstool. He turns around, and his bleary eyes focus on me. For a split second, I get what I drove eighty all the way home for—a bewildered smile. He’s happy to see me. For a split second, I know everything will be okay. I know I made the right decision in coming back.

  Suddenly, the corners of his mouth turn down. He twists back to his beer, hanging his head in it once again. “Go away.”

  Everything inside me crumbles. I look at the blonde on his arm, who’s giving me a triumphant sneer. I step closer. “You’re not happy to see me?”

  Bleached girl drapes her arm tighter around his back. “He said go—“

  He shakes the girl’s arm off of him and stands up. “Brenda. Order me another beer, would you, please?” he drawls, clamping a hand around my wrist.

  I try to shake him away but he holds tight to my hand like I’m a recalcitrant child. He leads me past the gawking patrons, out to the corridor in the back, by the pay phone and the restrooms, where it smells like a nauseating combination of pee and ammonia.

  Finally, he throws down my wrist and raises his hands in exasperation. “What the fuck are you doing here, Katie? This isn’t the place for you.”

  “It is,” I tell him feverishly. “I realized something today. Wherever you are, that’s the place for me.”

  “What?” He’s looking at me as if I’m speaking Swahili. I start to say it again, but he rakes a hand through his hair, annoyed. “Naw. You’re wrong. Boston—“

  “Screw Boston,” I tell him, talking a mile a minute. “I hate it there. I only liked being there when I was with you, to tell you the truth. So I quit my job, and—“

  “Wait, wait, wait. Back up,” he says, holding out his hands and blinking hard. I can tell he’s drunk, or close to it, because he’s wavering a little on his feet. “You quit?”

  I nod. “It’s like you said. It’s not for me. I was wasting my time there.”

  He frowns. He doesn’t look happy for me. In fact, he looks downright disappointed. “You belong there. Not he
re.”

  The smile on my face starts to crack. “But—“

  “You think you’re going to find your passion here? In this nothing town?” he growls, crossing his arms. “Get your ass back to Boston.”

  “You said you only wanted me to be happy, Dax. Why can’t you accept that you are what makes me happy?”

  He studies me for a moment, his expression hard. My words don’t penetrate that thick armor he has built around himself. “It was okay when I was younger. But I see the way your parents look at me,” he says earnestly. “It’s the same way your boss looked at me. You’re too good for this place. It’s like they constantly need me to prove I’m worthy of you,” he mumbles, pushing off the wall and having to brace himself with his shoulder against the other wall. He’s not just drunk, he’s sloppy drunk. He can barely walk. I try to grab his hand but he shrugs me off. “I’ll never be worthy,” he says, and then moves slowly away and back to the bar once more.

  I stand there, alone, listening to an old Johnny Cash song drifting from the jukebox, then step outside to the eyes of everyone in the bar. Dax is at his barstool, with his back to me. He doesn’t even look at me as I pass.

  The blonde’s still standing next to him though, and now she’s whispering something in her ear. Apparently, she’s bad enough for him. He’ll probably just take her home and fuck her senseless and leave her in the morning.

  So why do I feel jealous of her?

  Chapter 13

  I have nowhere to go, so I get into my VW and drive home. As I pull into the driveway, my headlights illuminate the white Re/Max sign on the lawn. When I cut the engine, I sit in the car for what might be minutes or hours.

  Then I climb out, use my key, and go inside.

  My father is standing in the foyer as I come in. He’s holding his sheet, ready to turn in for the night. “Katherine?” he asks, bewildered. “Why aren’t you at your job, honey?”

  My eyes flood with tears. “I don’t have a job anymore.”